Death of a Kingfisher by MC Beaton Read Free Book Online

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    At first sight, it was a puzzle how Ginger had received his nickname. He was in his thirties with a completely bald head and a thick muscular body stripped to the waist showing prison tattoos on his arms. He was tinkering with a motorbike in his weedy front garden.
    The front gate was lying on its side. Hamish followed by Dick walked into the garden. ‘I’ve got bugger-all tae say to ye,’ said Ginger.
    Hamish sighed. ‘Full name, or I’ll have you in a cell for the night for obstructing the police in their inquiries.’
    ‘Walter Stuart.’
    ‘Do you know anything about what’s been going on at Buchan’s Wood?’
    ‘Me? Naw. Never go near the place.’
    ‘Have you heard of anyone in Braikie who might possibly have sabotaged that bridge?’
    He scratched his bald head. ‘Nope. I’m clean. The ones I used tae know, well, what’s in it for them? They’re only interested in any crime that pays for drug money.’
    Hamish handed over his card. ‘If you hear anything, let me know.’
    ‘Would there be money in it for me?’
    ‘Sure,’ said Hamish.
    ‘Right, boss. I know things about them streets what you don’t.’
    Bless films and television, thought Hamish. He could see Ginger’s eyes narrowing and darting here and there as he tried to emulate a TV tough guy.
    The rest of the day produced very little. Dick had given up and had fallen asleep in the passenger seat with Sonsie draped across his lap like a fur blanket. Hamish wondered how he could bear the heat. The wind had suddenly dropped. It was one of those close, grey days where the Highland midges were out biting in force. He rubbed his face neck and hands with repellent and looked at the sky.
    If it rained that evening, he was going to have a miserable watch.
     
    But Sutherland went in for one of its dramatic changes of weather. A light breeze was blowing as he set out. He didnot take a tent or sleeping bag because he only planned to stay in the Fairy Glen for an hour.
    It was two in the morning when he entered the dark depths of the glen and made his way to the pool under the bridge. He sat down on a flat stone and waited. He could sense nothing but peace. There was the sound of the waterfall and the occasional rustle in the undergrowth of some small animal. Fairies, according to Highland superstition, were not glittery little things but small dark men. But the boys had seen something and then a voice warning them off. As far as he could gather, the wardens were nowhere around.
    He gave it an hour and a half and then returned to Lochdubh. An idea suddenly struck him as he was serving Dick breakfast. ‘Did you tell anyone I was going to be in the glen last night?’
    ‘I might have said something to the Currie sisters.’
    Hamish groaned. ‘That’s as good as taking out a full-page advertisement in the local paper. Don’t you see that everyone would soon know I was going to be there? No wonder nothing happened.’
    Dick placidly chomped a large sausage. ‘Och, well, all ye have to do is go again and I won’t say a word.’
    Hamish’s hazel eyes narrowed. ‘No, my friend, you’ll go the next time.’
    ‘It’s no’ suitable for a man o’ my years. I think I have the rheumatism.’
    ‘I think you’ve got the laziness. You’ll go when I tell you to go.’
     
    The rest of the week passed in dreary police work, until Hamish felt he must have interviewed the whole of Braikie. He longed to see Mary again, but kept away, reminding himself that she was married.
    The evening before the funeral of the kingfishers, Jimmy Anderson turned up with a thick file of papers. ‘Statementsand more statements,’ he said. ‘Go through them, Hamish, and see if you can pick anything out we might have missed. The bridge is repaired and there’s going to be a big crowd tomorrow. Lot o’ daft rubbish. Do you think Mary Leinster is right in the head?’
    ‘She’s a good publicist,’ said Hamish. ‘A lot of the press are going to be there and